Brawler

by K. S. Adkins

  “Princess,” he whispers.

  “Captain,” I whisper back.

  “Do you hurt?”

  “A little,” I answer honestly. “But I’m okay, Jonas.”

  “I’ll get the nurse.”

  “No,” I tell him. “Not yet. I don’t want to sleep. I want to talk to you. I missed you.”

  “Fuck,” he whispers, taking my hand.

  “Tell me everything, Jonas,” I whisper back. “I can take it.”

  Looking miserable and lost, I pat the small area next to me and invite him to crawl in next to me. He does so without question. He’s careful not to move me too much, but the pain means little to me. Not having him near me is what hurts. The second he finds his spot, he buries his face in my neck and cries uncontrollably while trying to fill me in. I comfort him the best I can, sometimes crying and sometimes praying. I realize, as we both lay there, not sure of what happens next, we could do one of two things: we could mourn, cry, and count our blessings, and one day move on. Or we could rage, blame, and lose ourselves to bitterness and the unfairness of life, maybe even losing each other in the process.

  I choose love.

  Once the worst has passed for my husband, I decide to tell him a story. It has little to do with our current circumstances, but it matters just the same. Needing to comfort him I do just that, I tell him a story. My husband stays quiet while I speak. In the short time I’ve known him, he’d become a great listener. I explain in great detail my love for science, for learning, and for him. Toward the end I explain how all of the events leading up to my meeting him were small compared to what we’re facing together right now. I tell him as much as it hurts, together we will heal each other, and one day we will be lucky enough to try again.

  Then, in an effort to start the healing process, I asked him a question. “What do you think he would have looked like?”

  “He would have been beautiful like his mother, tall and sculpted like his father, with his mother’s brain and his father’s sense of humor.”

  “Are you saying I don’t have a sense of humor?”

  “You know I think you do,” he says. “It’s just not as developed as mine.”

  “I think the fact that we had planned to name him Michael Jackson proves we not only have a wicked sense of humor, but that we also are extremely creative,” I tell him, smiling.

  “We’re something, all right,” he says quietly. “Michael Jackson.”

  “Michael Jackson,” I repeat. “We’ll love him forever, Jonas.”

  “You don’t blame me?” he asks, staring at my belly.

  “No,” I tell him. “If anyone, I blame myself. Now wait …” I say, stopping him from cutting me off with a protest. “We both need to work through this, Jonas, but in the end I think we both know who was to blame, and you were the one who delivered his punishment. Ben did this, not us. It’s going to take time, Captain, but we’ll get through this.”

  “You’ll still be my wife?”

  “I will always be your wife,” I tell him, grabbing his face. “I missed you, Jonas. I knew you would come for me.” Leaning in, I press my lips to his and let my tears run down from my face onto his. He kisses me back and lets his tears fall, too. We stay like that for hours, and I decide, in that moment, when it’s our time to leave this earth that we are lucky enough to leave this way, too.

  Together.

  My wife is sound asleep.

  A couple of hours ago the pain took over and she had no choice but to take her doc’s advice and accept pain management. During her rest an interesting thing happens. Remember that dumbfuck doc that had a thing for her? Yeah, well, he stopped in to check on her. What’s funny is I didn’t kill him. I shook his hand, thanked him for taking care of my wife - had to throw that in there - when she needed it, and promised to tell her he stopped by when she woke up. Whether or not I do that is still up in the air, but I’m making an effort to grow up. I’m a fucking work in progress.

  Rogan walks in with Venessa. They both hug me, ask me how we’re doing, and not wanting to wake her, Venessa sits next to her bed and plays with her hair while Rogan takes me to the side to talk to me. I don’t know what it is, but I knew it ain’t good. Judging by his face, I decide whatever it is, I need to handle it for her sake and mine. I cannot flip the fuck out.

  “Give it to me straight,” I tell him.

  “Ben came through surgery, partner,” he says. “Saw it with my own eyes. He’s on life support, but if he can get through the next forty-eight hours, he stands a good chance at recovery.”

  Closing my eyes and shaking my head, I let that knowledge sink in. So I didn’t even get the pleasure of killing the bastard. What are the fucking chances of someone surviving six shots at close range? Jesus, how do I tell my wife? Taking a deep breath, I decide that right now, I can’t. He ain’t leaving anytime soon, so when the time is right, I’ll tell her.

  “I failed her,” I tell him, looking over her sleeping. “When it counted, I couldn’t even get killing that motherfucker right. She deserves his head placed at her feet. How the fuck am I supposed to tell her I fucked this up, too?”

  “Pray that he don’t last forty-eight hours,” he says, looking over at Macy and Venessa.

  When Rogan gets her attention they both offer me words of encouragement, hugs, and a promise to visit tomorrow. Walking back over to my wife, I take her hand in mine and vow to her silently that if that piece of shit lasts forty-eight hours, I’ll kill him myself.

  The nurse chooses then to come in and check her vitals. She sings Macy’s praises on how well she’s recovering. She tells me how lucky we are that we found each other, and that she’s going to grab a cart and come back to take her catheter out. The fuck is a catheter?

  Waiting it out, I see her color is improving. Her body responds well to the blood she was given, but she still sleeps. The nurse said she needs to sleep as much as possible. They gave her something in her IV to let her sleep through removing the catheter, which turns out was a tube between her legs that ran to her bladder allowing her to piss. Jesus, don’t ever fucking put me down for one of those.

  After the orderly brings me a shit excuse for a dinner, I sprawl out on the plastic couch and fall asleep to the beeping of the machines that are helping my wife heal.

  Tomorrow, I promise myself. Tomorrow I’ll tell her.

  I was sleeping pretty soundly until I felt Venessa playing with my hair. I’d know her touch anywhere. Though I kept my eyes closed, I was tuned in to my surroundings. Having her close felt good. Hearing Rogan’s voice felt good, too. Though hearing my husband’s voice was always the best, until I heard the news Rogan had to share with him.

  My husband thinks he failed me again. The anguish in his voice makes it difficult to fake sleep, but I do. He isn’t ready to tell me, and I understand why. Knowing him, he probably views it as an unfinished task he owes me. He still doesn’t understand he doesn’t owe me anything. Listening to them discuss Ben has me thinking about him briefly. The years I spent in his company thinking I knew him but never really knowing him at all. Considering him a friend, when in reality he was my greatest enemy.

  For him, I was a means to an end.

  That final night in the basement will never leave me. Number three came down after Ben failed to get what he wanted and he was on a mission. But before he could land a blow I attacked him with a fucking hammer. Resolute to put him behind me and end his reign of terror, my first strike had to count. So I hit him in the left temple. When he went down I continued to swing, I couldn’t stop swinging. Oddly enough, I don’t remember much blood, but my eyes weren’t accustomed to the light, either. The women were part cheering, part screaming, but I was too focused on him to make sense of it all.

  Then, like a true prince, my husband appeared, and my only thought was … get to him. In doing so, I left myself open for Ben. In my madness I had forgotten all about him. My last memory of him was being upstairs. So when Jonas reached for me and his eyes widened,
I turned to see what had him spooked, and before I could blink or protect my middle, Ben fired one round, straight into my belly. Straight into my son.

  I know Jonas fired several rounds, but I didn’t hear them. I didn’t hear anything. So when he picked me up and carried me upstairs, I knew I was slipping further away from him. The pain was less, my breathing had become shallow, and even then, I couldn’t feel our baby anymore. Even then I knew I was losing him, and there was nothing I could to stop it, but I held my belly anyway hoping, by will alone, I could keep him from leaving me.

  When Jonas explained the details of my surgery I nodded and took mental notes. I didn’t add the things I also knew likely happened that the doctor’s didn’t share, but being a nurse, it’s not abhorrent to me like it would be him. The team here saved my life even while I had to lose my son in the process. Truth is, I knew I lost him the second that bullet entered my stomach. I was just about four months along; he was still so tiny and fragile. I’m surprised we were able to find out the sex, but we did, and now we know.

  Now as I watch my husband sleep on what’s probably the world’s most uncomfortable piece of furniture, looking at his half-eaten dinner and watching his chest rise and fall, it’s the first time I’ve ever seen him tired. For a man like my husband, an enforcer of laws and a doer of good, I know it’s hurting him that a threat to his wife is still breathing within these same walls. Quite frankly, it’s wearing him out.

  Careful not to make a sound, I purse my lips together and bite down on my cheek to stop the groan from leaving my mouth as I start to move. Sitting up slowly I get my bearings, letting the dizziness pass first. Scooting forward, I slowly shut off the drips to both IVs and disconnect the connecting hub. Turning the volume down on the monitoring equipment I move the poles to the side and ease my feet to the floor. I practice standing first. Instinct has me bringing my hands to my belly so I embrace it. Holding my belly still brings me a sense of peace. I snag a pair of latex gloves from the table and keep them in my hand. Taking one step followed by another, I make it to the door. Looking back, he’s still asleep. Peeking through I see the hall is empty.

  Hurrying my pace as best as I can, I make two turns, and with one final hall I’ll be at the reception of ICU. I force myself not to scowl at the pain or the burning in my belly. Focusing on my feet I shuffle past a thankfully empty reception desk and look at the name plates on each door. Three doors down on my left I’m standing in front of the door of B. Freeman, who is allergic to penicillin. Peering in his room I see it’s empty, and the only light is shining from above his bed and from the machines employed to keep him breathing.

  Spotting a chair next to his bed, I slowly ease myself into, it needing a break. Physically and emotionally exhausted, I rub my belly lightly while taking in his appearance. I tried calling up the hate but I don’t hate him. I’d have to feel something for there to be hate. I wanted to do good and he chose to do evil. He abused my trust, our friendship, and my body. He was also the reason behind the deaths of those men Jonas had thought I killed.

  He abducted four innocent women for the sole purpose of experimentation and hurting me, because he was told to. He changed their lives forever. He certainly changed my life forever. In plain terms, Ben was a leech. He took from everyone and everything around him. Behind that baby face and under those fancy clothes lived a monster.

  He came from money and privilege, yet behaved with expectation. I truly believe he felt the world owed him something, but I just don’t know what. I also truly believe in justice. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. I truly believe monsters aren’t just under our beds, or in my case, my parents. Some monsters are out mingling with the rest of us, hiding their true natures. I also truly believe we all carry the ability to be cruel, to harm others, and lie when the purpose suits us, but most of us are able to curb those urges. Ben was not one of those people.

  Standing up on shaky legs, I walk over to his mechanical ventilator. Taking a moment to read his vitals and commit them to memory, I lean down, supporting myself on the bed rail as I put both gloves on. I turn off the machine easily by pressing the red button, followed my pulling the plug from the wall. One loud beep is all I hear; then the room is bathed in quiet. I watch as the machine ceases in reproducing air; I watch as his chest rises and falls a little less with each breath. I stand there silently watching nature take its course.

  When his last breath is close and death even closer, I lean over putting my face above his and I speak to him from my heart. “You took life from me. Now I take life from you.”

  I am able to watch him go. It doesn’t take long. In fact, the moment I shut those machines down they should have come in here. Standing there, I keep waiting for staff to run in when the front desk is alerted that he’s stopped breathing. I wait for them to try and resuscitate him. When nothing happens, I wonder if they decided just to call the police instead. Exhausted, I take a step back. I’m not sure how long I stand there waiting for the staff, police, or someone to come and punish me for what I’d done, but it never happens. It’s when I close my eyes that I feel my husband’s arms around me, turning me toward him.

  “Come on Princess,” he whispers in my ear. “Let’s get you back to bed.”

  And that’s what he does.

  It’s what my husband always does; he protects his wife.

  After helping her reconnect her lines and reset her machines, I crawled into bed with her. Not a word is spoken. It takes a while, but eventually her breathing goes deep, and mine follows. We sleep soundly; we sleep deep, knowing for tonight she is safe. Tonight, I dream of my wife. I dream of our future and I dream of kids and grandkids, dogs, and barbecues, and I dream of the family I’d waited forever for.

  It isn’t just us, though. There are Rogue and Venessa, Max and Jules, and even Tony, which I’ll think on later. Did I mention kids? So many kids. Laughing, playing, beating the shit outta each other. It’s the best fucking dream I’d ever had. Especially when I look on the porch to see my wife smiling at me in that special way she does. That smile that says she knows how lucky we are, and that she doesn’t take it for granted any more than I do.

  I want the dream to last forever, but it doesn’t. I felt a presence, so I snap my eyes open to see my partner staring at me.

  “The fuck you trying to do?” I whisper at him. “Give me nightmares?”

  “Ain’t so sure you should be in her bed partner,” he whispers back. “You move, you could hurt her.”

  “Thank you, Doctor Black,” I say. “Can you back up, man, my eyes are crossing.”

  “Ben’s dead,” he says not moving or breaking his stare.

  “And?”

  “Just thought you should know,” he says, looking at me in the eyes like he’s waiting for me to confess.

  “Thanks for waking me up to share the information,” I tell him. “Where’s Venessa?”

  “At home,” he says. “Needed to see you first, alone.”

  “Quit looking at me like that, partner,” I tell him. “I ain’t left this floor all night.” Which isn’t a lie. Ben’s room is on this floor, but he doesn’t know I know that.

  “Even if you did, you know I wouldn’t —”

  “Partner,” I tell him straight, letting him figure it out. “I didn’t shut off his life support.”

  After he blinks several times he gives me that smirk. He looks around me to my sleeping wife and then back at me and tells me straight, too. “Go back to sleep partner. You look like shit.”

  With that he gets up and walks out.

  Staring at the door he walks out of, I smile. He gets it. Turns out the staff at that front desk got it, too. They didn’t stop my wife from doing what she needed to do; seems like they had other shit going at that time. Heard through the grapevine one of the women taken and held by Ben happened to work on this very floor. It also turns out the coffee pot wasn’t working and it was an all hands on deck kinda thing to get it fixed. I get it, the women need their coffee. The
y also didn’t run to his aid until I had my wife safe back in her bed. Those women have husbands and children of their own; I owe them a debt for letting my wife give Ben what he deserved. Those same women respect my wife and the women taken, and they ain’t got no respect for a man, any man, shooting another woman, a pregnant woman, one of theirs, in the stomach.

  You just don’t fuck with the female species.

  The second Rafe brings me home my body starts healing by leaps and bounds, but it is my heart that can’t seem to move on. I remind myself to stop touching my belly in front of people, but I can’t help it. It comforts me. When Jonas catches me doing it, I see him flinch, and most times he just leaves the room after. I want to apologize, but I don’t know how to put it into words. I feel guilty that I wasn’t strong enough to save both myself and our baby. I still feel my son there, and I’m not strong enough to move forward yet, because I just don’t know how. When I woke up in the hospital it was that feeling of being alive and being so grateful to have my husband that making promises to move forward seemed attainable at that time. Turns out it’s a lot harder than I thought.

  Sleeping is close to impossible for me. We go to bed together, but the first few nights I would get up to pace so he could sleep, and at first I would go into every room in the house, but would avoid the nursery. The other night I figured a step in my moving forward would be to go into the nursery to find some closure. The second I walked in the guilt overwhelmed me and I didn’t get any closure. Instead, I let the grief take me. When I was in the nursery nothing could touch me. This wasn’t a sanctuary; it was my punishment. I deserved it, and I’d stay here as long as possible. So that’s how the pattern started. At night I would find my way here, put in my Skulls and put “Beautiful Pain” on repeat, turn the volume all the way up, and let the words work me over. It’s like it was written for me to hear. I wanted to take his advice, but I was still too raw to grasp the meaning. Eventually I’d nod off then I’d wake up to my husband carrying me back to bed, taking my Skulls out, shutting my phone off, and pulling me close to him until I fell back asleep.